


The Magpie and the Ram

by raiyana



Series: Nwalin works [6]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Nwalin Week, sideship(menioned) Fíli/Ori
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 13:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14770544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: During a masquerade ball in Erebor, Nori falls for a masked stranger, dreaming of Ram's strong arms and deep laughter, haunted by a dwarf who seems to have vanished even more thoroughly than Nori could - or has he?During the same masquerade, Dwalin is entranced by a pair of laughing eyes hidden by a feathered mask and the mystery of the Magpie begins.On the sidelines, Dís is trying not to facepalm too much - her hints have not grown subtler over the years, and yet neither dwarf seems toget it.





	The Magpie and the Ram

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [This art](http://asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com/post/172001512843), all credit to Blue_Sparkle.
> 
> Thanks to Hattie for emotional support and random ramblings during the rewrite process - I'll try to get it properly finished but I wanted to post _something_ for NwalinWeek during NwalinWeek, hehe.

“You’re going Dwalin, and that’s final!” Dís thundered angrily, pacing up and down the floor of her private rooms and glaring at Dwalin, whose ferocious return glare had far less effect on her than he might have hoped. Crossing his arms across his chest, knuckledusters creaking slightly when he flexed his fist, he glared harder. The argument wasn’t about attending; he’d never let her go alone, even if she wasn’t the King of Erebor – but the fact that it was a masquerade sat very uneasily in his mind.

“I don’t see why I have to dress up!” he complained. Dís was probably the only one who _could_ order him around, these days, but Dwalin still had little desire even to _attend_ the celebration of Erebor’s reclamation – let alone _put on a costume_ for the ridiculous Masquerade Ball. “Why can’t I simply wear my uniform and stand at your back as always?” 

In his long acquaintance with a certain star-headed Thief-turned-Spymaster, Dwalin had learned the value of disguises in sneaking into places that weren’t meant to be snuck into – and the potential for an attacker to leap at the chance provided by the relative anonymity of the Masquerade Ball frankly scared him witless even five years after the Battle of Five Armies; the pain of their losses still overwhelmed him at times.

“Nori has heard no whispers of any untoward planning,” Dís replied sagely, her blue eyes piercing his soul, “and this Masquerade Ball is also meant to celebrate _your_ contribution, cousin!” Sighing, she ran her hand through the tumble of mahogany curls that spread across her shoulders, lifting the mass off her neck and massaging the slight stiffness of her day away.

Dwalin made an impatient sound in his throat, undoing the straps of his knuckledusters with his teeth and batted her hands away. Pressing his thumbs into her tense muscles – the Raven Crown was heavy in more than one way and spending the day in Council with the nobles only added to its weight – Dwalin rumbled a small sound of grudging assent, pressing her down onto a chair.

“Wear a mask and a hood, at least, Dwalin,” she said giving in to the relaxing massage.

Dwalin hummed noncommittally.

Dís leaned back against the chair, her deep alto joining the old song Frís had always hummed at night.

Dwalin’s fingers, however, were not skilled enough to let him get away with edging out of her plan, he knew, unsurprised when Dís half-turned her head, raising her eyebrow knowingly. Dwalin felt himself flush under her scrutiny.

“I won’t force you to dance, Dwalin,” Dís said gently, making Dwalin feel a stab of guilt – she would have to take a turn with Dáin, at least, though he knew she had as little desire to dance as he had; the weight of grief still marred her soul, and he did not think it would ever truly dissipate.

“I’d dance with you,” he returned brusquely, meaning it and knowing that the shadow that crossed her face at his words was for Thorin, who had often taken advantage of his widowed sister to escape dancing with anyone even vaguely interested in marrying him.

“You can save me from Branka,” Dís smiled, and if it was a little forced, they both ignored it with the ease of long practice. “But I don’t want to see you as part of the Guard during the ball; Alfífá has things well in hand -” Dwalin scowled at her, pinching her neck slightly – he had always hated being dressed up and he could feel _hours_ in Dori’s and bolts of fabric’s presence looming on his horizon. Dís smirked, delivering the kicker with the satisfied expression of a dam who knows she has won “– your concern isn’t, I hope, a slight on her abilities?”

Dwalin frowned at her, his hands stilling for a moment, “Of course not!” he protested. “I just…”

“I know, Dwalin…” Patting his forearm gently, Dís drew in a shaky breath, regaining the self-control she had inherited from her amad. “I know.”

Dwalin nodded, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “Fine,” he growled, as she had known he would, “but what in Mahal’s name am I going to wear?”

He should not have felt a shiver run down his spine at Dís’ reply, but he felt a heavy sense of foreboding fill him at the almost-maniacal way she intoned the words: “You’ll see…”

 

 

 

 

Nori had finally decided on purple, festooning his mask with a vivid array of iridescent feathers – some were from local birds but had been expertly dyed, and some he’d had shipped from the Orocarni – and transforming his costume into a version of a bird that Ori had called at once grand and slightly scary: Exactly Nori’s style. The wide-cut billowing sleeves he had modelled after one of those Elven robes – the sleeves were impractical in his daily life, even though they served as perfect hiding spots for four secret blades tonight – and the large feathers made them appear like wings. Forgoing his usual star-shaped hairdo, Nori smirked at his own hidden visage in the mirror, the golden eyeliner only just visible through the holes in the mask, his distinctive nose hidden in the beak of the mask; only his chin showed beneath the feathers. Twirling, he admired the tightly fitted brocade jacket – he had added hardened leather to the sur-coat, in case he ran into trouble, but the overall effect showed off his lean build, – the long ‘tail’ of the jacket, decorated with more feathers, the pale leggings, and his knee-high boots completed the costume. The boots, of course, contained several more knives, but Nori was far less armed than usual. For a moment, he wondered what Dwalin’s costume would turn out to be – even though he had been dead set on getting out of the Masquerade, Nori thought Dís would have made him join her – but the thought fluttered away on the breeze of Dori opening the door of his room.

“We’re going to be late if you keep dithering, Nori,” she said, “it won’t do – we’re _all_ Guests of Honour!”

Behind her, Ori smiled softly, wearing a costume he had knitted himself and looking surprisingly mumakil-ish for someone who had never seen such a massive beast. Dori’s costume was really their father’s old Ereborian Guard’s uniform, although she had spruced it up a little, and Nori smirked at her.

“Coming, coming,” he soothed, giving himself one last once-over and flicking the long single braid of his hair back to sway gently along his spine as he walked to the door. “Keep your tunic on, Dori,” he chuckled, dodging her good-natured punch with a cheeky grin that made his sister huff, chivvying both him and Ori towards the door.

 

 

Walking into the Ballroom, Nori squeezed Dori’s hand once, a low whistle of appreciation escaping him. Dori had – after Dís threatened to exile one of the most annoying suppliers for the ball – taken over all preparatory duties from her friend, and she had created a perfect venue in which to celebrate their victory over Smaug.

Abandoning his siblings to their own devices, he sidled over to the Raven-masked figure that could only be Dís – and not just because he knew what costume Dori had created for her – and gave his friend a cheeky wink.

“A magpie, hmm, Nori?” Dís asked, smiling faintly through her mask, “although somewhat more… colourful than the ones in Ered Luin.”

“If the bird fits,” he said, winking at her again before his attention was stolen by a bulky-looking dwarf in a ram’s mask and a green tunic, cleaned ribs from some sort of animal peeking out from beneath a heavy hooded cloak and outlining his powerful chest perfectly.

“See something you like?” Dís mumbled conspiratorially, leaning in close.

Nori nodded, already moving when he felt her give him a gentle push forwar, enough to make him stumble into the stranger’s arms, large hands covered in kid leather gloves coming up to catch him, almost instinctively falling into the dance being played, heavy boots stomping the rhythm. Nori grinned, pleased by the answering smile in those eyes, shadowed by the depths of the ram skull he wore as a mask, and went along with the dance.

 

The bird-clad dwarf fit perfectly in his arms, Dwalin found, even if the music was too loud for real conversation, and he nearly frowned to realise that he _was_ enjoying himself, almost forgetting to keep a peripheral eye on Dís and anyone coming near her. He had not forgotten his promise to save her from Branka, the loud – and wealthy – merchant who had recently told her that ‘ _You’re still young enough to bear pebbles_ ’ with the distinct air of someone expecting to father said pebbles. Dwalin had put on his most dangerous face, his axes springing into his hands as though summoned by some magic of Tharkûn’s, stepping up to stand very closely behind Dís and being his most menacing self all the while he inwardly crowed at the way she verbally eviscerated the upstart merchant.

“Like this song?” his partner asked, barely audible over the din of dancers in iron-soled boots and the oud percussion instruments.

Dwalin nodded, performing a complicated hop-twirl-hop-spin that made the smaller dwarf laugh brightly. Wrapping his hands around that slender-but-strong shape, Dwalin let himself draft away with the rhythm of the dance, staring into the gold-flecked eyes of his bird-disguised partner and feeling the long single braid swaying across his fingers with each move, a small sensual pleasure even through the thin leather gloves. It felt thick, even near the end, a glossy auburn colour that shone in the light of the torches, snapping against the bit of skin bared at his wrist when they turned.

“Thirsty?” he tried, when the fourth song came to a close, silently longing to continue the flirtation of bodies and flashing eyes behind masks, feeling hunger stir in his blood as he wondered what his beneath the costume – and more than certain he’d enjoy making them feel good in the discovery. It had been a long time since he’d practiced flirting with anyone – he could usually find a willing bedmate, but such dalliances rarely involved _dancing_ or even a whole lot of _words._

The smaller dwarf nodded, a sliver of a smile – his lips were very red, painted with berry juice perhaps? Dwalin was tempted to taste them to find out – appearing beneath the beak of the purple mask.

Walking together towards the refreshments, Dwalin managed to make passable smalltalk with his dancing partner, somehow falling into a discussion of glaives versus axes without even learning the name of his Magpie.

But perhaps that was the point of the whole thing, he thought, introducing himself simply as ‘Ram’ and hardly surprised to get a teasing laugh and a ‘Magpie’ in return.

 

 

Nori was having fun. The hunk of a dwarf he’d stumbled upon had proven to be a skilled dancer, and the solid muscles on that frame made Nori’s mind wander into the bedroom more than once, imagining the way his real – or made-up, he wasn’t picky, he’d be ‘Magpie’ for this ‘Ram’ any day – name would sound in that deep voice.

Picking up a tankard of ale, he tossed back most of it in one go, hardly caring about the stray droplets lost to his bead when he finished, only to see Ram’s head thrown back in obvious enjoyment, the apple in his throat bobbing invitingly as he swallowed the potent brew. The Royal coffers certainly had not stinted on the drinks budget, Nori thought, following the way Ram’s tongue chased up a droplet lingering on his lips and feeling a shiver of lust pass through him.

“You certainly are a big guy,” he purred, running his fingers teasingly up Ram’s forearm, feeling the muscles flex under his touch.

“Big enough,” Ram replied huskily, staying in range when Nori half-turned to pick up another couple of tankards, his fingers just barely brushing across the front of Ram’s trousers and assuredly not disappointed with their contents.

“I’d say,” he flirted, handing over one tankard and giving Ram a saucy wink, trying to determine the colour of his eyes in the depths of the ram-skull’s eye socket, but unable to make it out clearly, the skin around those eyes coloured black to add to the illusion.

“Brother!...!” Ori’s slurred and nearly unrecognisable voice called, interrupting Nori’s musings. “I maybe am… drunk!” Barely getting the words out for hiccupping, Ori grabbed his sleeve.

Cursing silently, Nori whirled around just in time to catch Ori’s grey lump of a costume before his brother fell over with the force of another drunken hiccup.

“What are… how are you this drunk?!” Nori hissed. Ori smiled at him through hi mask, drooling a little on his knitwear. “Mahal’s furry balls!” Nori cursed, looking around for Dori but catching no sight of his sister. For Ori’s sake, probably a good thing, he had to admit, Dori was unlikely to be sympathetic – and highly likely to think it was all _Nori’s_ idea.

“Is he alright?” Ram asked behind him, and Nori felt a moment of war between his heart and his libido. He sighed.

“I’ll just… get him home. See you later, big guy?” Giving Ram a sauce wink – or his best effort, at least, even if it was hampered by Ori picking fascinatedly at the feathers at his shoulders – Nori wrapped his arm tighter around his little brother and began to steer both of them out of the hall.

 

 

Watching Magpie cart off the drunken Oliphaunt, Dwalin felt another shiver of lust travel through his groin at the hypnotic way that red braid swayed with each step, bright against the purple cloth and feathers. Following the pair with his eyes until they disappeared out of the large double doors, Dwalin’s smile widened. Magpie had asked him to wait – a good sign, in Dwalin’s book – and so he looked around for a way to pass the time, snagging another drink and moving over to where Dís’ Raven stood, taking up his customary position and nodding away the uniformed guard whose task it obviously was to keep an eye on their King.

Dís’ raised eyebrow was unmistakable even through her mask and Dwalin crossed his arms over his chest defensively, feeling the bones that made up the other half of his costume press into his skin – a not unpleasant situation that brought his thoughts back to Magpie and his plans for his evening with the enticing bird.

Dís cleared her throat.

“I danced!” Dwalin exclaimed defensively.

“Well done,” Dís replied, stealing his tankard of ale for a sip. “Did you have fun?”

“…Yes.” Dwalin growled at her, turning up the force of his glare when she chuckled at his sullen response.

 

 

 

Back home, Nori had a time of it trying to wrangle Ori out of his costume and into something resembling sleepwear. He wanted to simply pour the sod into bed and return to the party, but Ori had begun bawling incoherently when they were halfway home and Nori hadn’t the heart to abandon him.

“I miss Fíli,” Ori hiccup-sobbed, falling onto his bed.

Nori felt a pang at the thought of that bright golden dwarf whose life was cut far too short.

“We all miss Fíli,” he replied gently, sitting down on the mattress and running his hand soothingly through Ori’s hair.

“I want my Fíli,” Ori slurred, drooling on his pillow, “I miss kisses.”

That was news to Nori, but somehow not surprising – Ori and Fíli being sneakier than expected was, but somehow they made an odd sort of sense together. He sighed, lifting Ori’s head and placing it in his lap.

 

 

 

By the time Dís called it a night, Magpie still had not returned and Dwalin was doubting he would. With a sigh, he drew his cloak around him and made his way through to darkened halls towards his home, disappointment dogging his steps all the way.

Reaching his own home, he pulled off the dark cloak, hanging it up neatly and undid the black silk ribbons that had kept the skull from slipping off his face. Returning the skull to its customary place on his wall – once, it had been his first mount, back when he was part of the army of the Iron Hills; Dáin had kept it for him since before Azanulbizar – Dwalin toed off his boots. Unbuckling the straps that had secured his ‘ribs’ in place – ingeniously attached to his usual weapons harness, even if he’d had to leave his axes at home – Dwalin stretched, returning his harness to its spot on the wall and leaving the ribs in a pile to be dealt with in the morning.

Scratching at the hair at the back of his neck, he continued towards his bedroom, slightly disappointed that _he_ was the one pulling off his tunic and untying the laces on his trousers. Imagining the nimble fingers of Magpie doing the job made him feel that same tingle of lust run up his spine, the image of those painted red lips stretched around his hammer making him rock-hard in moments. Remembering the feel of that long braid brushing against his wrist made him think of burying his hands in Magpie’s hair, feeling the softness running through his fingers combined with the softness running along his hammer.

Dwalin groaned.

He had known Magpie would be trouble… but the throbbing in his groin told it was just the sort of trouble he’d like, his hand coming down to pump himself without any conscious command, once, twice, swirling the slickness of his prespend around the head with a calloused thumb. He didn’t worry about undressing Magpie in his mind, preferring to wait for the real deal, but he liked the thought of staring into those gold-flecked eyes, watching himself disappear between those lips, disappear into that wet, warm, and sinfully hot mouth, being bathed by Magpie’s quick tongue. He’d be agile in this, too, Dwalin thought, strokes lengthening and eyes falling shut as his breathing grew heavier.

Breathing heavily through his nose, Dwalin groaned, his free hand joining the game, rolling his balls slowly, speeding up at the image of Magpie’s quick fingers fluttering through the air when he talked – and suddenly Magpie turned into Nori, Nori’s teasing grins during council meetings, Nori’s sweaty hair stuck to his face after a vigorous round of sparring. Dwalin’s groan deepened, trying to force his mind back to safer realms of fantasy but giving in to the tempting image of Nori emptying a barrel of water over himself, plastering that auburn hair against his skull, the silver in his beard gleaming wetly as Dwalin came with a roar, imagining streaks of his seed spurting across those beads, imagining Nori licking up his offering, drinking him down with a moan of pleasure.

Falling back into his bed, his own cum painting lines across his chest, matting the dark hair, Dwalin groaned, covering his eyes with his forearm and mentally scolding his unrepentant hammer.

Nori was not receptive to any advance from his side; that had always been perfectly clear to Dwalin – and it really was about time he stopped lusting after impossible dwarrow and kept his lustful thoughts on obtainable company in his bed!

 

 

 

In the morning, Nori woke up, still wearing his feather-decorated jacket – a few feathers had come loose in the night – entangled with Ori, who had drooled on his pillow, and several blankets as well as one knitted mumakil trunk.

He groaned.

Master Muscly Hunk would obviously not have waited for him – the first mirror was already shining! – and Nori felt a moment of vicious satisfaction when he accidentally stabbed Ori in the gut with a pointy elbow trying to extricate himself. He felt cheated – dancing with ‘Ram’ had merely whet his appetite for _more_ – wanting to feel that large hammer he’d only brushed against the night before fill him up and bring him over the edge again – and again.

 

Slipping out of the house, he returned to one of his own homes – it paid to have several locations of living, in Nori’s experience, and life in Ered Luin was not completely wiped from his mind – stashing his crumpled costume and giving himself a wash.

His hair and beard smelled like stale beer, his trousers had a very suspicious stain on the thigh – Ori was a drooling drunk, for sure – and more wrinkles than he could shake a stick at. Wincing at a certain move brought his attention to the rather large and angry-looking bruise on his left arm that was probably a result of his decision to give up on removing Ori’s boots the night before. Deciding on a proper wash, he threw on some old clothes and made his way to the public bathhouse – no reason not to mix business with leisure, after all, and he was sure to overhear some juicy gossip after such a grand ball.

 

 

When he returned from his bath, feeling more like himself – his hair was back in its peaks and his beard plaited properly instead of being tucked away in his hair braid – Nori whistled a small tune to himself. Throwing on his usual getup and a varied assortment of knives and other weapons, the Spymaster of Erebor left the small house he currently used, making his way through a few of the busier places within the Mountain and taking reports from his underlings, dropping words in ears here and there that he’d like to know who had been dressed as a ram during the Masquerade.

 

 

Three days later, turning up for the usual meeting with Dís, Balin, and Dwalin to discuss current goings-on, Nori was in a foul mood. For the first time, his eavesdropping and spying skills had failed him, all his minions coming up short at finding the _real_ ram he had danced with at the party. The Dwarf was a mystery, plaguing his mind at night in more than one way – including several highly vivid dreams that Nori rather fancied turning into reality. There had been a few false positives – _his_ ram had apparently not been the _only_ ram at the ball – but Nori had dismissed them all after further investigation.

At least, today he’d have an excuse to look at Dwalin who was every bit as delicious – and unobtainable – as ‘Ram’, the stark lines of his tattoos just begging for Nori’s tongue to trace them when Dwalin flexed, leaning his weight on his clenched fist on the table, reaching out to point at a map of Half-Moon Crescent where the guard had recently raided a house, taking down a profitable smuggling ring. The way he smiled at Nori, praising the intelligence that had led to the arrest never failed to make Nori’s stupid heart want him more.

Telling himself not to want the brawny dwarf that ticked all his boxes was – as always – a complete failure, even when he added a slideshow of Dwalin’s non-interest over the years; Nori had done his very best to get the Guardsdwarf into his bed back in Ered Luin, all to no avail, and it vexed him terribly that the crush was so persistent.

 

 

Lounging on Dís’ sofa after the meeting, his mind still full of Dwalin and ‘Ram’, Nori had the impossible thought that Dwalin might _be_ ‘Ram’. Bursting into loud laughter at his own foolishness, Nori nearly fell off the sofa.

“You alright there?” Dís asked, frowning at her paperwork. She never minded Nori’s presence, never had, in fact, even back in Ered Luin when she had been the natural bridge between his network of street-rats and guttersnipes and Thorin.

“Just a silly thought,” he answered absentmindedly, wondering what Ram was doing at that moment – if he, too, was thinking about a slender Dwarf called Magpie. Dís hummed something noncommittal.

 

 

As it happened, Dwalin _was_ thinking about Magpie, staring at a display of colourful Orocarni feathers laid out on a vendor’s table in the Grand Market. There were none in the right shade of purple, but he bought one in iridescent blue on the way home, enjoying the silky feel of it gliding over his palms.

The feather ended up stuffed into the mouth of the ram-skull, but that gave him a few less-than-pure thoughts about his vanished crush – Dwalin had kept an eye out, but no dwarrow matching Magpie’s physical shape or build had crossed his path – well, except for Nori, but Nori was probably the reason he found Magpie so attractive to begin with. The Thief – Dwalin always used that title in his head to stop himself using any of the myriad others he _wanted_ to say – had been the star of many a fantasy ever since Dwalin arrested him for the theft of a golden hair comb, and Dwalin was well-aware that his crush would only ever remain so. He and Nori were friends now – had been friends for years, really, even if their relationship in Ered Luin had been fraught with pitfalls, trying to juggle Nori’s role as the Black Owl with his criminal career that the role necessitated – but the Thief had never looked his way, and never would. He deserved someone as pretty as himself, Dwalin thought, telling himself to be content with admiring from afar.

 

 

“Did you enjoy yourself at the Ball?” she asked suddenly, putting down the pen with a slight click and rolling her shoulders with a less-silent groan.

Nori was startled out of his pleasant daydream in which Ram was just about to carry him to bed, sitting up straight and staring at her.

“…what?” he asked dumbly, trying to get his thoughts – and his libido – in order.

“The Ball,” Dís repeated patiently, “Dori was very proud of your costume.”

“Yes,” Nori replied, clearing his throat, “yes, I had fun.”

“Dancing?” Dís winked – Nori enjoyed dancing, and Dís secretly shared his enjoyment even if hers was usually diminished by the availability of partners _only_ looking for a dance. “I thought I saw you out on the floor.”

“Yes, I danced,” Nori replied, remembering the feeling of those strong fingers wrapped around his own, wrapped around _his waist_ , trusting his weight to a pair of thick arms when the dance involved a lift. “I-err… I left early though.”

“Oh? Did something happen?” Dís frowned at him – Nori had the odd feeling she was disappointed in him.

“Ori…” he trailed off, “got drunk.” Nori shrugged, “Had to take him home.”

Dís’ eyes flicked away from his face, a barely audible sigh escaping her. “Cruel of the Maker to take his One away so soon,” she said softly.

Nori boggled.

“ _You knew?_ ” he asked, flabbergasted.

Dís laughed brightly. “I _raised_ Fíli,” she reminded him pointedly, “did you not think I would know when he was in love? Why did you think Ori went on the Quest in the first place?”

Nori felt more than a little daft.

“Perhaps I should speak to him,” Dís continued quietly, “even if my son had not admitted his heart to me before he died, it might bring Ori comfort to know that it was real to him…”

Nori nodded silently; he had not known how to make his brother feel better on the night of the Ball, but Dís had lost _her_ husband – she might have words Nori did not.

“Did you see Dwalin’s costume?” Dís said, changing the topic. “Rather ingeniously made, I thought.”

“I didn’t think Dwalin was going?” Nori replied, looking down at his hands and picking imaginary dirt from beneath one of his fingernails with his smallest dagger to avoid letting her read his keen interest in his eyes.

“He came for my sake – saving me from the clutches of Brank – he even _danced_ ,” Dís revealed, chuckling lightly. Nori smiled wryly – Dwalin was even less fond of dancing at official feasts than Thorin had been, and Nori was sad to have missed it.

The bell for the end of the workday tolled, interrupting their conversation. Dís got to her feet with a sigh.

“Time to face the hungry hordes,” she muttered wryly, leaving Nori behind in her study as she went to preside over dinner in the smaller of the three Dining Halls in the Royal Palace.

Nori slinked out, filled with burning curiosity – what costume had Dwalin worn?


End file.
